was burned while a dozen not-so-hot field officers succeeded.
Never mind that Trotter’s rise through the ranks was at the expense of some very capable, even brilliant men and women. If they became disenchanted with a system that seemed to reward ass kissing and apparent legerdemain over good, solid and imaginative intelligence work, then all the better for BaranoVs plans. The general was a great success, until in the end Kirk McGarvey had unraveled the entire house of cards. When it was over, Baranov lay shot to death in a KGB safe house outside of East Berlin, and Trotter lay dead in a CIA safe house in West Berlin. Both assassinations were carried out by McGarvey. And that was the end of the story. A lesson to be learned. The field officer who developed a peripheral awareness, a skill necessary in order to preserve his life, should not lose the skill once he was recalled to a desk assignment. No place was safe. Hadn’t they learned that lesson before? Rencke focused on the monitor in front of him.
Streams of data crossed the screen so fast it was impossible to focus on any one item. They were telephone intercepts that the National Security Agency was supplying him from the Moscow exchange over the past six months. So far his program had come up with a few bits and pieces, each item deepening the lavender. In August Dr. Anatoli Nikolayev disappeared from Moscow after stealing sensitive, though unnamed, files from the KGB’s paper archives at Lefortovo. Nikolayev had worked in the KGB’s Department Viktor during the Baranov years.
Around that same time, retired general Gennadi Zhuralev had been found a suicide in his Moscow apartment. Zhuralev had worked as deputy operations officer for General Baranov.
By October the SVR, with help from Interpol, thought it had found Nikolayev in Paris. But then the leads dried up. Nikolayev knew the city very well. He’d spent a lot of time there working for Baranov.
The fact that one old man could not be found by the combined efforts of the Russian SVR, Interpol and presumably the French intelligence service, or at the very least, the French police, meant that Nikolayev had not simply wandered off. The old spy had gone to ground, using his tradecraft skills. Rencke had become a skeptic under McGarvey’s tutelage. He did not believe in coincidences. McGarvey was hired as interim DCI until his Senate confirmation hearings. His daughter went looking down his history to write his biography, focusing her energies on General Baranov. And things suddenly began to happen. An old Baranov man goes walkabout after snatching some files that make the SVR nervous. Another old Baranov man turns up dead. Now the Senate hearings were dredging up ancient history, opening old wounds, exposing old cesspools, revealing desperate Cold War battles that were best left undisturbed. Rencke had started to look over his shoulder as soon as his programs began to shift to lavender. A dead man was seeking revenge. It was spooky. The accident with his car had been no accident. He’d done no work on his front wheels, as he told Security.
Someone had tried to kill him, and he wanted to give them room to try again. Neither had the helicopter explosion in the VI been an accident. Rencke drew a triangle on a sheet of paper. McGarvey’s name was at one of the points, Baranov’s at the second and NikolayeVs at the third. Mac was on his way back from the Virgin Islands with Mrs. M.
and Dick Yemm. Baranov was long dead. Which left Nikolayev. Rencke felt a sudden stab of fear. He dialed up the CIA’s Office of Security’s locator service and found out where Todd and Liz were staying at in Vail. He got an outside line and called the number. It was a little after five o’clock there. “The Lodge at Vail, how may I direct your call?” “I want to talk to one of your guests. Todd Van Buren.” “One moment, please,” the operator said. She was back a minute later. “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Van Buren does not answer.” “This is an emergency.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Would you care to leave a message on his voice mail?”
Rencke broke the connection. He was starting to sweat. He composed himself, then called the ODin Operations. This evening it was Chris Walker. Rencke vaguely knew the young man; his impression was that Walker was earnest. “Operations.” “This is Rencke in the DCI’s office. I want to talk to Todd Van Buren.” “We have a team en route, sir. Have you tried their hotel? They’re staying at the Lodge at Vail.” “I tried their room, but the hotel operator said there was no answer.” Flashes were going off inside Rencke’s head. It was like the Fourth of July, only more intense. “Call hotel security, I want someone to check their room right now. And where the hell is our team, and where’s the FBI?” Walker hesitated. “Is there a problem, sir?” “I don’t know,” Rencke said, calming himself. Nothing happened to them.
They were still on the slopes or in the ski lodge having a drink.
“Have them paged if they’re not in their room. Then call me back.”
“Yes, sir.” Otto stared at his computer monitor. Nikolayev was the key, of course. It was possible that he had murdered General Zhuralev in Moscow, then disappeared. It was also possible that Nikolayev had arranged for the assassination attempt on Mac. But why, after all these years? General Baranov was long dead. Surely there weren’t any vendettas after all this time. Something like that would be beyond all reason. It would be … insane. It was equally obvious that someone did not want Mac to become the DCI and was out to stop him. But could a dead man be behind it? Chris Walker called back ten minutes later.
“They’re not there, Mr. Rencke. It looks like they weren’t there all day. And they don’t answer their page.” Rencke’s fear solidified as if his heart had been flash-frozen. “I want them found within the hour. Whatever it takes, find them.” “Yes, sir,” the OD responded.
“We’re on it.”
TWENTY-TWO
PEOPLE REMEMBERED LIES MUCH LONGER THAN THEY REMEMBERED THE TRUTH.
As soon as the Gulfstream jet stopped in the Andrews VIP hangar it was surrounded by a dozen Air Force Special Forces troops armed and dressed in BDUs. Watching from a window, McGarvey spotted Dick Adkins climbing out of a CIA car. He was flanked by a couple of bulky men in civilian clothes. Everyone looked grim, expectant. It was the middle of the night. Kathleen had refused anything to eat or drink during the four-hour flight from San Juan, and McGarvey was worried about her. She held his hand in a death grip, her knuckles turning white when she saw the armed guards. “It’s okay, Katy,” he assured her. “We’re home safe now.” “What about Elizabeth and the baby?” Her voice was strident, her mood brittle despite the sedatives the doctors in San Juan had given her. “Somebody is with them.”
Yemm went to the hatch and popped it open. He gave a nod to his people standing next to Adkins, assuring himself that the situation in the hangar was under control. He turned back. “Mr. Director.” McGarvey helped Kathleen out of her seat, and with Yemm’s help got her out of the airplane. Adkins came over, a look of deep concern on his face when he saw what kind of condition Kathleen was in. “Welcome home,” he said. “Do you want an ambulance?” “No, we’re going straight home,”
McGarvey said. “Are Todd and my daughter on the way back?” “Security is with them. They haven’t been told anything yet.” Kathleen clutched his arm. “They’re okay, Dick?” “They’ll be okay,” Adkins promised her. There was a wildness in her eyes that was disturbing, as if she were seeing things that were invisible to the rest of them. “We’ll have them back by noon,” Adkins said. She suddenly became aware of her surroundings. She straightened up and brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “We weren’t expecting this sort of a reception,” she said. “None of this has been in the news, has it?” The question caught Adkins by surprise. “No, we have it contained so far. But it won’t hold forever.” She patted his arm maternally. “Nothing ever does, didn’t you know?” She managed a weak smile. “How’s Ruth?”
“She’s back from the hospital. We’re going to work it out.” “Good,”
Kathleen said. “Good for you.” She turned to her husband. “It’s time to go home now. I’m sleepy.” “Housekeeping has the Cropley safe house ready ”
“We’re going home, Dick,” McGarvey said. Adkins seemed embarrassed. “Who do you want to handle the debriefing “I’ll come in around noon. We’ll decide then,” McGarvey said. He helped Kathleen into the back of the limo, then turned back to Adkins. “Ask Dr.
Stenzel if he would come out to the house this morning. The earlier the better.” “Will do,” Adkins said. “I’m glad that you’re back in one piece.” Kathleen said nothing on the way home, leaning back in her seat and looking out the window. The snow had finally stopped, the weather had cleared and the temperature had plunged into the
